An Ideal Solution Isn't Always Seven Percent
by Heiress7Muzzy
Summary: 'What Sherlock felt was pain. Only pain.'


Sherlock deemed quite a lot of things unimportant in life.

Astronomy, for one. What did it _matter_ if poor Pluto got kicked off the solar system? Or if everything orbited around the sun and not the moon? It was hardly going to help him solve the triple homicide case he'd been at for two weeks now.

People, for another. They were all just vacant, unobserving shells, unable to tell the most _obvious_ of details that were sitting right under their noses, plagued with the weakness humanity shared – sentiment.

Food was considered unimportant as well. Energy had to be absorbed in order for him to carry out respiration and thus survive, but apart from that, it was mainly a nuisance and extremely inconvenient, especially when it slowed down his thought processes, making his deductions rather sluggish.

To sum up, Sherlock Holmes was not a man who ate very much, if at all.

xxx x xxx

His mother always used to insist on a healthy diet for him and Mycroft when they were young.

Carbohydrates, dietary fibres, minerals, vitamins, protein.

Bread, water, fruits, vegetables, meat, fish.

While Mycroft needed considerably less convincing to eat, Sherlock's stubbornness made every family meal a grueling trial. Nothing edible appealed to the younger sibling at all, and getting him to eat when he was wrapped up in an experiment was nigh impossible.

Still, Sherlock's mother persisted, because mothers are nothing if not persistent.

She would tempt Sherlock into eating by allowing him to experiment with the leftovers. The kitchen table was therefore more often than not Sherlock's childhood work bench, where he would spend hours after a meal studying the actions of digestive enzymes or finding natural indicators in food pigments.

Mealtimes in the Holmes household became a thing looked forward to, rather than dreaded. Mycroft for their mother's excellent cooking, and Sherlock for the experiments he'd be permitted after the meal.

It was the closest to _content_ Sherlock had ever been.

xxx x xxx

When their mother died, the effects on the two brother were not immediate.

But they were startlingly _evident_.

Mycroft's grief could be read in his gradually increasing waistline as, without their mother's guidance, his dietary habits began leaning towards those of the high-energy content (cakes being practically the primary substance of his consumption).

Sherlock's grief was shown in his gaunt face, hollowed cheeks, and verging on emaciated body as he forgot (or simply refused) to eat. Eating hurt; eating reminded him of Mummy, of the experiments with the food he was allowed, of the way Mummy's eyes crinkled with warmth and kindness and affection for him, of how much she had genuinely cared for his well-being.

All of that was gone now, though, and it would be pointless to think otherwise.

And so Sherlock as a teenager was always rather thin and wraith-like, drifting through high school with the pain of losing his mother written plainly in his disheveled uniform (no Mummy to fuss over and straighten for him), his malnourished figure (no Mummy to force-feed him with temptations of experiments), his erratic behaviour (no Mummy to make sure he toed the line between rule-breaking and rule-bending).

When Sherlock had passed out from hunger a few too many times, and Mycroft had tried (and subsequently failed) as many times to get his errant brother medical attention, Mycroft finally snapped.

He confiscated Sherlock's violin and threatened never to return it unless he ate.

It wasn't an ideal solution, but it was effective nonetheless.

The resentment Sherlock had towards his brother, however, never really faded. Not even after the violin was returned to him as promised, after he'd regulated his diet from nil to about two meals per day.

xxx x xxx

Then there was the period of Sherlock's life which he himself barely remembered.

The period during which food had not only seemed unimportant, it was positively inconsequential, and had been flung into the farthest recesses of his brilliant mind.

What need did he have for such trivialities as _food _when there was ecstasy and peace and euphoria and focus and bliss to be found?

For the second time in his life, Sherlock felt truly _content_.

xxx x xxx

But of course, all good things had to come to an end. (Even if, as Mycroft constantly reminded him, cocaine was hardly a thing people generally considered _good_, even if it was the only thing since Mummy's death that had made him _whole_ again.)

Withdrawal was agony. That was another period of Sherlock's life that wasn't remembered in crystalline perfection.

Everything was blurred and muddied, muted and faded, mixing and blending with other memories, until he couldn't tell hallucination from reality, and screams and sweat and tears and _pain_ coalesced until all he could do was _hurt_.

Perhaps sociopaths _could _feel after all.

What Sherlock felt was pain. Only pain.

xxx x xxx

When he snuck onto his first crime scene and solved the case within a matter of minutes, Sherlock felt the same rush of giddiness only Mummy's smile or a healthy (ha bloody ha) amount of cocaine could do.

Detective Inspector Lestrade soon realized his attempts at preventing Sherlock entry to any more crime scenes were futile; the man was determined, and when a Holmes is determined, he cannot be deterred.

So Sherlock found himself addicted to crime-solving. In his opinion, dealing with gun-wielding maniacs and bomb-detonating psychopaths were a much healthier addiction than drugs.

It was not an ideal solution, but it was effective nonetheless.

Not to mention, the endless plethora of crimes happening in London meant the Met would have to contact Sherlock every few days to consult his (sarcastically and arrogantly given) advice.

Which was just as well, given the number of times either Lestrade or Sergeant Donovan had found him passed out from hunger on his own living room floor. (Sherlock had explained just as many times, how eating slowed down his crime-solving rate, a theory based on an experiment he had done, the results showing he solved crimes 3.7% faster on an empty stomach than a full one.)

Nevertheless, the members of the police force took to making sure their consulting detective was kept fed and wouldn't die of starvation, if only for the sake of the well-being of the Londoners.

Lestrade would supply Sherlock with takeaway at the crime scene, Donovan would sometimes give up her salad for Sherlock when they were in the middle of a case at NSY, and Anderson even helped once or twice by cuffing Sherlock to a table and simply force-feeding him while holding the case files hostage to ensure the detective's cooperation. (It was no wonder Sherlock disliked the man.)

Although Sherlock was still a far cry from _healthy_, at least he didn't look like he was on death's doorstep anymore, merely on death's front porch, perhaps.

Mycroft was kept satisfied now that his brother was no longer on drugs, Lestrade was kept content now that his work load was significantly decreasing, Donovan was kept delighted now that she and Anderson had begun dating.

Sherlock was kept ecstatic now that there were mysteries to be solved and murderers to be apprehended and _fun_ to be had. Now that eating no longer hurt as much, nor the lure of cocaine as strong; now the memories of Mummy no longer hurt as much, nor those of his time spent in rehab.

And so everyone was happy, more or less.

xxx x xxx

Then John Watson came, and upended Sherlock's life.

It was barely noticeable at first, how effortlessly John fell into step with Sherlock, how he slotted into place like a piece of jigsaw and completed the whole picture, how he became part of Sherlock's life so intermittently it was hard to imagine a time when he wasn't.

John wasn't his mother, Sherlock knew.

But sometimes, when Sherlock was engrossed in an experiment studying the coagulation of salivary fluids in dead toads, or busy lying draped over the sofa contemplating the various ways to poison Anderson, John would sidle over quietly and place either a cup of tea (heaped with sugar, of course) or Chinese takeaway (chow mein being a favourite of his) at his elbow without ever disturbing him, something Sherlock secretly appreciated, and he would remember with a _pang_ that Mummy used to do that, too.

He had always ignored those gestures of Mummy's when he was young. Sherlock wasn't sure why, but he always ate whatever John left for him.

And sometimes, when Sherlock had not eaten for days on end and did not either remember nor care, John would sidle over quietly and confiscate his microscope or nicotine patches, promising to return them only after he had some food back in his system.

Mycroft used to confiscate his violin to get him to eat when he was young, and the resentment still hadn't completely faded. But when John did so, he found he didn't mind that much.

Coupled with the facts that John was hopelessly addicted to the adrenaline rush danger brought, that he had killed a man to save Sherlock after a day of knowing each other, that he was perhaps the only one who complimented Sherlock's deductions instead of being annoyed at them, and Sherlock found John Watson simply a recipe of disaster – he was experiments and cocaine and crime scenes all rolled into one – the new drug Sherlock found himself addicted to.

Addiction was a sensation quite familiar to Sherlock by now.

_Emotion_, however, was not.

xxx x xxx

Sherlock couldn't have found words for the emotions roiling within him had he wanted to.

He only had a name for the most dominant one – _loss_.

It was written in the absence of an amused twinkle in John's eyes, in the tense line John's mouth had become, in the rigid stance John held himself with, in the Semtex draped over John like a horrible parody of a fashion statement.

It was only afterwards, when the snipers Mycroft had sent had dispatched of Moriarty and _his_ snipers, when the bomb had been flung as far away as humanly possible from John and deactivated, when he had scanned John for any indication that he was even _slightly _less than fine and been reassured of it, that Sherlock realized he was _crying_.

There was no other explanation for the wetness on his face, tracking down his cheeks silently and inexorably.

It was only when John reached up (with a perfectly steady hand) to brush away the tears that Sherlock realized he couldn't remember the last time he had cried. At Mummy's funeral, perhaps. Or during the rather dark period in his life when he was in rehab.

Perhaps sociopaths _could_ feel after all.

What Sherlock felt this time was _relief_.

Overwhelming relief that John was fine.

xxx x xxx

It wasn't until Sherlock returned (after a three-year absence during which everyone he knew thought him dead) that the significance of _food_ as something vital hit him.

John – or the emaciated being in front of him that held the carcass of John Watson – looked like a dead man walking. With bags under his eyes and a gaunt face with skin pulled taut, and none of his old spirit left in his eyes, leaving them hollow and empty.

If human anatomy could have allowed it, Sherlock was positive his heart would have broken. (Because even sociopaths had to have hearts, didn't they? Otherwise how else would they be able to breathe _inandoutandinandout_ and live?)

Sherlock took up the task of force-feeding John, though the irony of their reversed roles was not lost on him, and swore to himself he would never not eat again. It was enough that one of them was malnourished and both of them heartbroken.

John came back. Slowly, but surely.

He began to eat and sleep (with less nightmares plaguing him) and complain about body parts in the fridge and snap at him for poor social etiquette and nag _Sherlock_ about eating more.

The day John withheld his nicotine patches and had him clean up the mess left by the splattered remains of the goat from the kitchen table marked the start of their renewed relationship.

Sherlock knew he was by no means forgiven, but at least he had John back.

xxx x xxx

"Why do you eat now?" the question was posed on an unremarkable evening as he and John lounged about 221B watching crap telly and (occasionally) shooting walls.

_Because I'm selfish. When I came back and saw you it _hurt_, it hurt worse than withdrawal, worse than the Semtex, and I'd do anything to avoid ever seeing you like that again. You didn't see how you looked – fragile and vulnerable and breakable – with one foot over Death's threshold – I thought you would collapse right there. Eating is a small price to pay for you never to see me in that state again._

"Because I'm selfish," Sherlock told him, feigning indifference.

"Oh?" John knew why, Sherlock could tell.

"You know why."

"Yes, and I'd like to hear you say it."

"It hurts when I see how worried my not eating makes you, and as I've said, I'm selfish and I want to make you happy again."

John let his hand rest on Sherlock's knee. "You _do_ make me happy."

And, Sherlock realized, it went the other way too.

xxx x xxx

To celebrate their reconciled friendship, Sherlock and John decided to have a night out and grace the latest crime scene (a serial killer's work) with their presence.

The evening consisted of copious amounts of chasing after people in dark alleyways, being chased by people down dark alleyways, and a confrontation of epic proportions with the murderer involving several handguns, grenades and a rapier for some reason.

And afterwards Sherlock and John had Chinese for dinner and discussed the merits of tobacco ash and Mycroft's waistline and practically the life-story of the businessman sitting across the aisle.

It wasn't an ideal solution, but it was an effective one nonetheless.

A/N: Hope you enjoyed this, I had fun writing it (:


End file.
